John Creasey - The Toff on The Farm

“No, I’m all right.”

“Next time you have a fight with a man with a gun, do whatever he tells you, you can always undo it afterwards,” said Tex. “This makes three people who want Selby Farm mighty bad, you ought to be able to get yourself quite a pile of money for it.”

“I just don’t understand any of it,” Gillian said, and her voice was a little unsteady. “I think I ought to sit down.”

“Don’t be surprised if you don’t feel so good,” the Texan reassured her. “That could happen to a lot of people. You’ve gotten a lot on your mind.” He watched Gillian sit down, then turned towards the city type, who was trying to get up while watching the Texan with a mixture of fury and fear. “I don’t like the way you treated this lady,” Tex declared gravely, “I’m going to teach you better manners.”

“Keep away from me !” Charlie scrambled to his feet.

“And while I’m teaching you manners, I’m going to ask you where Mr. Selby is,” Tex went on. “It had better be the right place, because after that I’m going to look for him.”

‘“‘Keep away!”

Now Rollison leaned against the wall, able to see all he needed to see without being seen himself. It was a change and a pleasure to watch his work done for him, and he admired the slick way in which the American moved; this man had confidence above everything else. Gillian, sitting out of sight, was breathing heavily; Rollison knew she would not miss a great deal.

Charlie darted to one side.

Tex slipped the gun into his pocket, and grabbed the man.

Gillian screamed, for there was a flash as a knife appeared in Charlie’s hand. On the instant, Rollison’s automatic appeared in his, but even before that Tex had moved his tall, lithe body, there was a swift struggle, and the knife went flying towards a comer and clattered to the floor. As it curved its arc Charlie fell back under a series of swift, savage blows, and had no time to defend himself or even to shout or cry. He thumped against the wall, and there was terror in his eyes.

Tex stepped back.

“If it wasn’t for the lady’s presence, I’d finish the job on you,” he said, drawling more than ever.

Gillian appeared, and stood by his side, sideways to Rollison. Unexpectedly, Tex’s hand moved and took hers; and they stood hand-in-hand looking at Charlie, whose right eye was beginning to close, whose lips were split, and whose City clothes were not immaculate any longer.

“Where’s Mr. Selby?” Tex asked, conversationally.

Charlie didn’t answer.

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” said Tex, and then corrected himself. “Not while Gillian’s present, I mean. But I will if you won’t answer. Where is Selby?”

“He—he—he’s in Brighton, 51, Norton Street. It’s a boarding house. He’s not hurt.” Charlie couldn’t get the words out fast enough, once he had decided to talk. “Don’t tell anyone who told you, they’ll kill me !”

“What number of what street ?” demanded Tex.

“51, Norton Street, Brighton.”

“Thanks a million,” drawled Tex, and went on in a way which made Rollison think that he was smiling : “Why do you want to buy this farm so badly ?”

Now terror flared in Charlie’s eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Come again.”

“I tell you I don’t know. I was told what to do, told how to handle it, I don’t know why.”

“You’d better find out why pretty fast.”

“It’s no use trying to make me tell you, I don’t know why,” denied Charlie, and he almost sobbed; it was a pathetic and degrading thing that a man could break down so completely. “Alan Selby was taken to 51, Norton Street, Brighton, that’s all I can tell you. That’s everything”

“You’ll find out why, brother,” said Tex, and released the girl’s hand and stepped forward.

“I don’t know why!” Charlie gasped.

“Someone knows, I guess. Who is it?”

When Charlie did not answer, partly because he was shivering so much, Tex . . .

“There—there’s a box-room,” Gillian told him huskily. She didn’t move. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you.”

“Just sell me the farm for fifteen thousand pounds,” said Tex. “I went to the telephone and arranged to step up my offer. That’s all the thanks I want.” He hesitated, and as he looked at her, his expression changed. “At least, that’s all I thought I wanted, but I could change my mind. Did anyone tell you how beautiful you are ?”

Gillian said, still huskily: “I’ll get those sandwiches,” and turned away. But she quickly looked back. “We can go in your car to Brighton, can’t we?”

“You bet,” said Tex, as if that was the thing he wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.

Suddenly, Gillian exclaimed: “Oh, it’s crazy! I don’t even know your name.”

“William T. Brandt, of Dallas, Texas,” the American answered promptly. “Hence the Tex. I’ll see you,” he added, and smiled with obvious delight.

Gillian was on the way to the kitchen.

There was no way of judging what she meant to do, or whether she would be prepared to go to Brighton with the American. More likely, she expected him, Rollison, to appear at any moment; Gillian had already proved that she had a head on her shoulders.

Rollison backed into the kitchen, and stood behind the door. Gillian hurried in, and something she was wearing rustled. She made a bee-line for the back door, and Rollison then felt sure that she was going to look for him. She glanced out and up and down the garden, and he stepped after her, whispering :

“Don’t shout, Gillian, but I’m here.”

She started, and caught her breath, but didn’t shout. She turned to look at Rollison almost wildly, and then closed her eyes, as if giving thanks that he was with her.

He moved so that he couldn’t be seen if Tex looked towards the door.

“I heard the lot,” he said, in a whisper.

“What shall I do?”

“Go with Tex to Norton Street,” Rollison told her, “and then insist on going to the Palace Pier head. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Fine,” said Rollison. “Don’t tell Tex that “

She seized his hand.

“After everything he’s done, I can’t let anything happen to him,” she said fiercely. “You won’t harm him, will you?”

“Not unless you change your mind,” promised Rollison. “All I want to do is make sure that he doesn’t harm you.”

“Oh, he won’t do that!”

‘‘Hush!” hissed Rollison, and as he did so, thought: “I wonder.”

Whether Tex the Texan would harm Gillian or not, he had certainly made a conquest.

Rollison went to the inner door again, glanced in, and saw Tex on one knee; he appeared to be tying Charlie’s wrists. Here was a man who had done this kind of thing so often before that it seemed like second nature. Rollison turned away, and went outside.

It was remarkable but true that he felt quite sure that Gillian would do exactly what he had told her to. Now his problem was to decide whether it was safe to go to 51, Norton Street ahead of her. He had told M.M.M. that she was in no physical danger, because only she could sell the farm; that was almost certainly true. And the American had made no bones about admitting that he wanted to ingratiate himself, so that he could have the farm.

The reason for the flare of interest in it could be found out later.

“I’ll take a chance,” decided Rollison, “although Monty will probably hate me for it,”

He went across the garden and over the fields, waved and called good-day to the man and boy who were still spreading muck, and knew that each stopped to stare at him. Less than an hour after he had left, he reached the Wheatsheaf Inn, He did not go in the back way, and was not surprised to see M.M,M, standing by the side of the scarlet car, trying to look pleasant but undoubtedly feeling worked up and explosive.

“What happened?” he burst out.

“That’s a long story,” said Rollison. “Let me tell you in the car.”

“We’re not going anywhere without Gillian,” M.M.M. said, fiercely.

“She’s coming,” Rollison said mildly, “and I promise you that she’ll be as right as rain.”

“I want to know what happened, and I won’t step into the car until you’ve told me,” said M.M.M,, who had a reputation for being as stubborn as any two-legged mule. He thrust his chin out and his eyes narrowed, and he looked rather like a musical-comedy lieutenant about to challenge the colonel to a duel.

“All right, old chap,” said Rollison, “it won’t take a jiffy,” For obviously M.M.M. had to be humoured. “The city slicker type who left here went to see her. He offered her five thousand pounds, and Alan . . .”

The telling of the story took two minutes, but only one of these was outside the car, for M.M.M. started to get in immediately Rollison began to talk. His left leg was the artificial one, and he had some difficulty in getting it into any car, as Rollison knew well: the thing to do was allow him to fight that battle for himself. He tugged and cursed— and then suddenly winced and leaned back, all his colour gone.

Rollison had the engine turning.

“What’s wrong ?” he demanded.

“You get cracking,” said M.M.M., and his lips set clamped together between each word. “Just rubbed the old stump a bit. Soon be all right. I thought you wanted to get to Brighton before that blasted Yank.”

He closed his door.

Rollison started off, but did not go at top speed, for M.M.M. would find it difficult to brace himself if it were necessary to brake; so he had to be very careful. He sat back, breathing hard, while Rollison looked in the driving mirror, expecting to see the American’s car at any moment.

They had been travelling for twenty minutes, and were half way to Brighton, when M.M.M. said :

“Sorry, Roily, I’ve got to get this leg unstrapped. Done some damage, I’m afraid. Any hospital would do, or a doctor, at a pinch. Hellish sorry.” He winced. “How about stopping at the next telephone and getting me a cab ? Then you can get moving again.”

“Of course,” said Rollison, promptly.

It was while they were outside a telephone box in a nearby village that Gillian and the Texan flashed past in the green M.G.

7

51, NORTON STREET

“You leave me here and get after ‘em,” said M.M.M. fiercely. “I’U be all right.”

“Five minutes won’t make any difference,” Rollison argued. “You sit there until the cab comes along.” He wasn’t sure that a taxi would be what M.M.M. wanted; an ambulance would probably be nearer the mark. But the other man had refused to hear of that, and the woman at the corner shop where the telephone was, had assured them that the promised taxi was a large one. It came within five minutes, vintage, large and lumbering, and Rollison helped M.M.M. into it, while an elderly and sad-looking driver watched.

“Now you get cracking,” M.M.M. urged, “If anything happens to Gillian “

“Nothing will,” Rollison assured him, but he was already on his way to his own car.

He persuaded himself that nothing could happen to Gillian, but could understand M.M.M.’s doubts. He had wanted to be at Norton Street well ahead of her and Tex, because they might run into a hot reception : therein lay the greatest danger. So he put his foot down and scorched along, taking the turns perilously until he reached the main London road; soon, he was on the outskirts of Brighton. He stopped at a sub post-office, asking for Norton Street, and was told that it was one which led off the promenade, not very far from the town centre. So finding it should offer no problem, he headed for the Aquarium and the Palace Pier. The sun brought out its worshippers in thousands, but the promenade and the beach were not crowded as Brighton knew crowds, and it was easy to drive along. He kept a sharp look-out, and saw Norton Street, had good room to park the car near the promenade, and was soon striding towards Number 51.